“I should think not indeed,” said Mrs Van Heldre indignantly.
“Might have known you’d say that,” sneered Uncle Luke. “What a weak, foolish woman you are!”
“Yes, I am, thank goodness! I wish you’d have a little more of my foolishness in you, Mr Luke Vine. There, I beg your pardon. What have you got there, shrimps?”
“Yes,” said Uncle Luke grimly, as he brought a brown paper parcel from the bottom of his basket, where it had lain under the wet piece of conger, whose stain was on the cover, “some nice crisp fresh shrimps. Here, Van—catch.”
He threw the packet to his brother’s old friend and comrade, by whom it was deftly caught, while Mrs Van Heldre looked on in a puzzled way.
“Put ’em in your safe till I find another investment for ’em. Came down by post this morning, and I don’t like having ’em at home. Out fishing so much.”
“How much is there?” said Van Heldre, opening the fishy brown paper, and taking therefrom sundry crisp new Bank of England notes.
“Five hundred and fifty,” said Uncle Luke. “Count ’em over.”
This was already being done, Van Heldre having moistened a finger, and begun handling the notes in regular bank-clerk style.
“All right; five fifty,” he said.